


Switch

by thesometimeswarrior



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Image, Brothers, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Electron Carpet, Episode: s01e16 Carpet Diem, Episode: s02e12 A Tale of Two Stans, Episode: s02e13 Dungeons Dungeons and More Dungeons, Episode: s02e20 Weirdmageddon 3: Take Back the Falls, Ford Pines is Not Okay, Gen, Jealousy, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:15:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26051749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesometimeswarrior/pseuds/thesometimeswarrior
Summary: Eventually, and he cannot say precisely when, he falls into a fitful sleep at his worktable, head plastered to the parchment, and dreams of seashores and backyard taunts, smirks on bullies’ faces…When he wakes, hours later, he’s clenching his hands pale.Tinkering. He’ll build something. Anything. Take his mind off of…bring clarity, yes.But what to build?His eyes scan the room, and eventually they settle on the carpet. It’s hideous—a shag area rug, and bright blue, with astonishingly clashing yellow accents.(How many times, for how much of his childhood, had he wished…hewas odd, andStanley…if they could justswitch…It wasn’t as though Ford’s fingers were theonlything that made him strange, and Stanley was…Stanley would be able to bear…)Ford's relationship with Experiment 78 grows and changes, over the years.
Relationships: Ford Pines & Stan Pines
Comments: 10
Kudos: 72





	Switch

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoy.
> 
> A quick note: while I did not intend any of this to be reminiscent of the experience of dysmorphia, I realize that it there are aspects of the body images issues that come up in this piece that may remind folks of that. If that's something that might be a trigger, just be aware.

He has never set out to actively _harness_ the town’s Weirdness, but, sometimes, Ford tinkers.

It’s helpful, he finds, in those moments when he inevitably hits a roadblock—as seems to be happening more and more frequently these days—to temporarily shift his focus. Build something—let everything else, the big question mark at the center of this town and of his Unified Theory of Weirdness, percolate in the background of his brain like the coffee he probably drinks far too much of, in the hopes that when he returns his active attention to it, he’ll have something of a breakthrough—and build _something_.

It’s been working less and less lately, though, as that question mark grows and gets larger and larger, and there is little to no empirical evidence left unturned that seems to hold that key. Ford feels this hole like an electric shock, like static buzzing and buzzing louder and louder in his head with every day that the mystery remains. It’s more than curiosity or scientific inquiry, it’s compulsion, he _has_ to discover what is at the root of the weirdness of this town, _has_ to complete his unified theory…because he’s…if he doesn’t, he’ll…he _needs_ …

A Unified Theory of Weirdness. He _has_ to complete it.

(It taunts him from every one of his twelve fingers.)

He pours over the journals, every day and most nights, looking for something, _anything_ , he might have missed, finds nothing.

He reads about the gnomes.

Nothing.

More coffee.

The Eye-bats.

Nothing.

Coffee.

The Undead.

Nothing…

Eventually, and he cannot say precisely when, he falls into a fitful sleep at his worktable, head plastered to the parchment, and dreams of seashores and backyard taunts, smirks on bullies’ faces…

When he wakes, hours later, he’s clenching his hands pale.

Tinkering. He’ll build something. Anything. Take his mind off of…bring clarity, yes.

But what to build?

His fingers are still numb from the grip. Nothing nimble or requiring too much dexterity. (And he’s still groggy so those decades-old voices still ring out in his head: _freak, freak, freak_ …)

His eyes scan the room, and eventually they settle on the carpet. It’s hideous—a shag area rug, and bright blue, with astonishingly clashing yellow accents. He’d purchased it years ago at a garage sale he’d passed on his way into the county—and when had he ever been one for aesthetics anyway? It served its purpose, kept his feet warm as he paced during those cold Oregon winters.

And, Ford decides, it would serve its purpose now—give him something to _do_ with his hands. (It always comes down to his damn _hands_!) He leaves his chair to kneel beside it.

What to do with it? He runs his fingers through it and finds the decal in the center: two circular arrows pointing at each other—he’d never really noticed it before—runs his hands along it. The bristles brush his fingertips, he can scarcely feel it…

( _Freak, freak, freak…_ )

“Gah!” Ford pulls back, suddenly, as the carpet releases a static shock. It jolts in his fingers—spits the feeling back into them all at once—and it dawns on him. Isn’t the brain, every aspect of the nervous system—surely the very sense of self—fundamentally an electric charge? This carpet is a festering ground for static electricity, and if he could harness some of the town’s natural Weirdness to amplify the charge…

If two entities with electric nervous systems—two _humans_ stood here at the same time…

If they touched the moment the field was maximally amplified, when the static charge released…

(How many times, for how much of his childhood, had he wished… _he_ was odd, and _Stanley_ …if they could just _switch_ …It wasn’t as though Ford’s fingers were the _only_ thing that made him strange, and Stanley was…Stanley would be able to bear…)

( _Freak_.)

(They were twins. Stanley wasn’t a freak. Stanley wouldn’t mind an extra two fingers. And even if he did...And their bodies were similar enough, or they had been as children…It would hardly like having a different body at all...)

It’s a fantasy, of course. He hasn’t seen Stanley in seven years, and may never again. And even if he did, why would Stanly _agree_ to… But, then again, he is just tinkering. Why shouldn’t he indulge in some fantasy?

Ford fetches his tools, and puts his hands to work on the carpet.

* * *

As it happens, he _does_ see Stanley again.

After a short, blissful period in which he thinks he gained two friends—one in the form of a college acquaintance willing to become a colleague and then compatriot, and one in the form of a so-called muse—and after he then subsequently loses both of them—Fiddleford to Ford’s own hubris, and Bill to never having truly been his friend in the first place—Ford is desperate.

He doesn’t need anybody. He can’t _trust_ anybody, because no one would ever accept him. The bullies, and then the voices in his head—both the recollections of Crampelter and the very current, very real Bill—have been telling him as much since he was a child. And yet.

And yet.

And yet. His own mind can be compromised. Bill could—can—penetrate it, (was able manipulate him so _easily_ , he’s such a _fool_ , how could he be so _stupid_ …) If he hides all the journals himself, even if he hides them in separate places, they’re all vulnerable. No, he needs someone else to hide the last journal somewhere remote and not tell him where. That way, if Bill breaks into his consciousness again, if he pries open his memories, he won’t find all of them. The instructions about how to complete the portal would be incomplete. It’s the only way…

And yet.

And yet. Everyone in this town could be Bill, and Bill could be anyone in this town, and he wouldn’t know because he doesn’t _know_ anyone in this town, and they don’t know him—he’s made sure they don’t know him—the only person he could remotely trust would be Fiddleford, but he has no idea where Fiddleford is and even if he did, Fiddleford wouldn’t help him now…

The only other connection he has—though can he even call it a connection when they haven’t spoken in ten years?—is Stanley.

When Stanley answers the call and arrives on his doorstep, Ford is admittedly preoccupied. But, after Ford shows him to the portal like it would mean anything to him at all and makes his request, after Stanley flies off the handle and has the gall to _compare_ their experiences, to insinuate that _he_ had suffered _more_ , something in Ford’s brain snaps into sharp focus.

“You think you’ve got problems?” Stanley shouts. “I’ve got a mullet, Stanford! Meanwhile, where have _you_ been? Living it up in your fancy house in the woods! Selfishly hoarding your college money because you only care about yourself!”

And this reference to how their physical attributes now differ notwithstanding, Ford wants to drag Stanley upstairs, to yank him onto the carpet, and let it activate like he had fantasized once upon a time. Let _him_ see who has it worse. And of course not _everything_ would change, Ford would still be the freak, even if Stanley had the anomalous fingers. But other people wouldn’t know that. They would see Stanley and think…See how _Stanley_ liked being alone! And their brains wouldn’t switch. Ford would still be the one burdened by the weight of the knowledge of what he had created—Stanley wouldn’t understand it anyway—but _Bill_ wouldn’t know that. Bill would still be under the impression…Would Bill attempt to enter _Stanley’s_ mind?

In the end, it’s just a theoretical quandary. He doesn’t have time to think through the implications of this line of thought, because suddenly Stanley is attempting to burn the journal, and Ford has to _stop_ him—because _yes_ , he wanted his research destroyed, but not _destroyed_ , because it’s dangerous, but it’s also his _life’s work_ , all he has to show for…all he _has_ …

But of course, Stanley— _normal_ Stanley—would never understand that.

It was a mistake to ask him here, Ford knows now. He dives for the journal, but Stanley counters, and then they’re on each other, fighting like they might have if they hadn’t liked one another as children, ugly hand on ugly hand, a kick, a punch, a burn…then somehow the portal is activated, another shove, and Ford is in the air...

And then he’s gone.

* * *

When he returns, decades later, his above-ground study—that had, in the years before his disappearance, served as his primary room of residence, certainly more than his actual bedroom—is almost entirely untouched. The rest of his house ( _his_ house!) is transformed into something else, some unrecognizable commodity to dupe unwitting out-of-towners—and if Ford weren’t so bone-achingly _tired_ , or if there weren’t so much else to be furious about, this might enrage him. But, save for the layers of dust, his room is almost precisely how he left it, down to fact that the calendar still shows July 1982—(several months before he learned of Bill’s betrayal and was flung into the multiverse, and probably the last time he been engaged with or aware of the outside world enough to change it).

The only noticeable difference is that the carpet is conspicuously absent.

And it’s not as though he would _use_ it now, at least not in the way he’d fantasized when he’d constructed it. For one thing, he doesn’t see Stanley enough for it to be feasible. True, Ford stumbles up from the basement for meals on occasion, but most of the time it’s only a quick stop—he brings the food back down to his lab with him, eats it alone with his eyes in his journals or on the remnants of the portal. And if he encounters Stanley in these moments, they flit their glances away from each other, hardly acknowledge one another at all.

They look similar again, he must admit, more like twins than they had decades ago. They’d both aged to look like their father. And there are differences, between them, of course—beyond the obvious on their respective hands—their _physiques_ are different, Stanley had clearly not spent the past thirty years with an intensive exercise regimen. But even this is not insurmountable. With the right clothing…

But it’s no longer only about their bodies. Though he’d never admit it out loud, Ford wants Stanley’s _life_ , the life in which he has an adoring family, a great-niece and great-nephew who _love_ him, who sit with him in front of the television, and who laugh with him over pancakes and bacon and eggs in the morning. And Ford knows, somewhere in him that’s even deeper than instinct—in the same place that he still feels the ghost of Bill pulling at the shadows of his mind even around the metal plate, that he still feels himself falling through the portal and being buffeted through the multiverse despite all rational knowledge telling him that he’s back in his home dimension and stable—he knows that he could never have what Stanley has.

This being the case, it’s easier to remain below ground, away from the mocking presence of a happy family.

There’s a moment, though, when they’re all away—at that diner, or fishing, or doing whatever it is that _normal_ people do in this town—when Ford’s poking around the rest of the house, looking for something, anything, that might make dismantling his life’s work either simpler or more palatable—that he stumbles into the attic, and sees, amongst the girl’s stickers and the boy’s novels, the carpet rolled up and stashed away in a corner.

His eyes settle on it. If Stanley moved it after leaving so much of the rest of the room untouched, he must have somehow, at some point, deduced what it was for. Ford wonders when that was. At what point, precisely, did Stanley realize just how much Ford had tried, once upon a time, to steal from him?

* * *

Dipper and Mabel will perish, and the culpability rests entirely on Ford’s shoulders.

Though, Stanley seems intent on monopolizing the blame for himself. “I can’t believe this!” he exclaims, sinking to the ground of their pyramidal cage. “The kids are going to die, and it’s all my fault! Because I couldn’t shake your _stupid hand_!”

Ford’s stupid hand, indeed.

But that isn’t the point now. No, there’s a particular moment of clarity here, at the literal end of the world—the literal end of the world that _he_ is about to _cause_ —in which, even if the voices in his head don’t quite _settle_ , he’s able to suddenly move past them in a way he has never been able to before. He’s a freak. He caused this. The world will end. But none of that matters. He will shake Bill’s hand, let him inside his head, gift him the equation, if it will save the kids.

“ _What_?!” Stanley bursts, when Ford vocalizes as much. “Are you kidding me?! Are you honestly telling me there’s nothing else we can do?!”

“Bill’s only weak in the Mindspace,” Ford explains. “If I didn’t have this darn plate in my head, we could just erase him with the memory gun when he steps inside my mind.”

(It’d be akin to something like suicide— _he_ would be erased from his body, even if the body itself were unharmed—but that wouldn’t matter, it would be a way out, a way to save both the kids _and_ the world…but it’s impossible, and so there’s no use dwelling on it…)

“What if he goes into my mind?” Stanley asks. And clearly, Ford thinks, his brother doesn’t understand the _implications_ , what he is suggesting. He opens his mouth to explain, but then his twin continues. “My brain isn’t good for anything!”

So he _does_ understand. And it’s almost _funny_. But it’s also futile. There’s no reason for Bill to enter Stanley’s head, no equation or key there to lure him, and Ford tells his brother as much. “There’s nothing in your mind he wants. It has to be me. I need to take his deal. It’s the only way he’ll agree to save you”—(because saving Stanley matters, too, of course it does)—“and the kids.”

“Do you really think he’s gonna make good on that deal?”

“What other choice do we have?”

“Simple. We make him go into my brain. And then you erase him.”

“But I told you, Stanley, there’s nothing in your brain he wants. He has no reason to—”

“But we’re _twins_ , Poindexter. We look almost exactly the same, even more now than we did as kids! And I know how to pretend to be you—I’ve been doing it for the past thirty years! We swap clothes, I put on your nerd gloves, and do that nasally voice of yours, it’ll be just like we switched bodies. Bill won’t know the difference. At least not until he gets inside my head, and by that point it’ll be too late for him. Right?”

“I...But…” And all at once, that clarity, the otherworldly calm, shatters, gives way to a lurch in his stomach, shocks even more violent than Bill’s torture. How many moments over the course of that decades-long, one-sided feud that seems so pointless now, had Ford fantasized about switching bodies with Stanley, thought about bringing Stanley to the carpet with various degrees of coercion? But not…it was never… _he_ never…

It was never supposed to be like _this_. Never supposed to end with Stanley _gone_.

“Look,” Stanley says. “This is the only way to save the kids without destroying the world. And you can’t do it cuz of that plate in your head. It’s gotta be me. Go on, Poindexter, tell me I’m wrong.”

“ _Stanley_ …”

“Then let’s just _do_ it already! Before he comes back with the kids!”

And before Ford can protest further, his brother is already stripping off his hat, his pants, his suit jacket…

What choice does he have but to acquiesce?

* * *

Even though he’s slept better the past few nights than he has in forty years, Ford nonetheless rises early the first morning after the kids leave. Such that, a few moments after he does, as he stands beside the Bottomless Pit, the sun is only just beginning to rise and peek through the pine trees.

“ _Yeesh_ ,” says a voice approaching behind him. “You’re not one for lazy mornings, are ya?”

“Did I wake you? I tried to be quiet on the stairs…”

“Eh.” Stanley shrugs. “Gotta get up sometime.” He gestures to the object rolled up in Ford’s arms. “Whatcha got there?”

As if it’s not obvious, Ford thinks. Even if it’s faded over the years, the carpet is still a distinctive, hideous shade of blue.

“A mistake,” he responds at last.

His brother grunts inscrutably.

“Stan…when did you realize what this was? What it did?”

“Not until a month or two ago. The kids found it in your room. I pretty much stayed out of there the past thirty years, and I tried to keep everyone else out too, but Soos found the door, and then Dipper and Mabel wandered in, and turned the carpet on or whatever…”

“They _activated_ it?”

“Yeah. Some shenanigans went down that day. It all turned out okay though, so, ya know, whatever. Dipper told me to get rid of it after that, but I could never bring myself to throw out anything that had been yours, so I just stashed it away somewhere."

Ford’s eyes flit toward the ground. “Mm.”

“Ford, why’d you make that thing?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t happy. And there were moments I thought I would be if I were…if I wasn’t...” He clenches his hand absentmindedly. “If I were someone else.”

“You mean if you were me.”

Another glance away.

“Well, lemme tell ya, my life wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows, pal. And I’m not saying I had it _worse_ , cuz I don’t think I did with what Bill was doing to ya and with what you were doing to yourself in your own head even before that. But I also don’t think I had it _better_.”

“I know that.” He pries his gaze back to his brother’s eyes, a breath, and then: “I was wrong, Stanley.”

There’s a weight to these words—this admission wrenched out of him, utterly novel though perhaps it shouldn’t be—and they both hear it. They stand in it, silently, for a moment, then, Stanley breaks the tension, nodding at the carpet. “That’s why you’re getting rid of it, then? Chucking it down the pit?”

Ford nods. There are more serious things he could elaborate on. How it represents a jealousy that was a part of him for so long even as he remained unaware of it. How, once planted as a seedling in the back of his brain, decades of anger and resentment had watered that jealousy, and it festered and grew, until it was part of the fabric of his mind itself, and he hadn’t even _seen_ it until the events of the past several days. And how now, if they’re going to live a life together as brothers, he has to— _wants_ to—uproot that envy from every inch of inside him, cast it all away.

Ford could elaborate on any of those things. But instead, he looks at the carpet, says in a voice flat and deadpan: “Besides, it sure is ugly.”

Stanley ogles at him for a minute, then his features break into a grin. “Hah!” He slaps his brother on the back—and Ford tenses, then smiles and leans into it.

His brother keeps his arm around his shoulder, and they both approach the edge of the pit. Stanley doesn’t move his hand as Ford hesitates for an instant, or as he closes his eyes and lets the shag carpet fall.

They both stare after it until it disappears from view. Then, they turn to each other. Stan’s arm still sits firm on Ford’s shoulder, and it feels, Ford thinks, like the promise of a new beginning, or at least a return to the way things always could have been.

“So, uh, ya hungry?” Stan asks. “Cuz I could go for some eggs, and Susan’s probably open by now…”

Ford smiles. “Breakfast sounds wonderful.”

He slings his arm around his twin’s shoulder in turn, so that they’re both holding each other as they turn back toward the car. And if any static is generated by Ford’s sweater or Stanley’s socks as they go, it dissipates into the ground before it’s able to shock either of them.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! I love comments!


End file.
